The Butterfly Sister (10 page)

I knew who she was, and she was not Virginia Woolf.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my fists also clenched at my sides, and counted five long seconds. When I opened them again, she was no longer there. But I caught a flash of something—black, flowy, the corner of her skirt perhaps?—from behind the edge of the nearby tomb. Had I made the woman disappear, or had she simply walked away?

I ran in the direction I'd seen her, behind the tomb and others, zigzagging between them so forcibly I tripped on one and slammed against the white cement, scraping my hand. Even though my palm burned—a thin layer of skin lost during the fall—I kept running until I came to the exit. When I felt a hand on my shoulder, I jerked away, screaming into the night.

But it was only Mark.

“It's me. It's me,” he cried. “Jesus, Ruby. What happened?”

Catching my breath, I looked left and right for her, as if expecting the woman to reappear and prove my sanity to Mark.

“She was right here,” I panted.

“Who?” And then I saw it, the worry of wrinkles around his eyes. “Virginia Woolf?”

I shook my head no and looked again for her.

But Charlotte Perkins Gilman—who had looked real enough to touch only a moment ago—had, like Virginia Woolf that morning, vanished.

I
caught my breath once we were on the streetcar again, but my heart still pounded in my chest.
Crazy, Crazy, Crazy,
I heard with every beat.

“There's a logical explanation for this,” Mark said.

“There is?”

“Stress. It wreaks havoc on the psyche, Ruby. Trust me, I've written enough term papers and crammed for enough tests in my life to know. You overworked yourself today, that's all, and you saw something that wasn't there.”

“Are you saying I hallucinated?”

He shook his head. “I'm sure there was someone walking in the cemetery tonight. A woman in a long skirt. And you imagined it was Gilman. Because you still haven't had a good night's sleep. You were upset, being at your father's grave.” He overannunciated his words, I thought, as if talking to someone still learning English. “I think we should head back to the hotel. We can order room service.”

“I thought we were going out.”

“We were but . . . this is the second time you . . . I just think we should relax. We can order a bottle of wine. We can take it easy.”

It was kind of Mark to say
we,
even though it was me.

He put his arm around me. “I'll draw you a bubble bath.”

“Okay,” I said, resting my head on his shoulder.

We sat in silence the rest of the trip. Even though my body lay perfectly still under Mark's arm, my mind moved at a record pace as I attempted to make sense of the day. Was Mark right? Could something as common as stress be the culprit? I wanted to believe that, wanted to accept Mark's reasoning, because it was the most rational explanation, preferable to hallucinations or ghosts. And it boasted the least consequences. After some rest, some relaxation, I would theoretically be cured, just like the woman in
The Yellow Wallpaper.

I wondered then about the boundaries of fiction and memoir. How autobiographical was Gilman's short story? I knew she suffered from depression all of her life and wrote
The Yellow Wallpaper
after seeing a doctor who prescribed rest therapy as a cure. The physician told her to “live as domestic a life as possible” and to limit her hours of mental stimulation. Essentially, he told her to stop writing. What effect did this treatment have on Gilman's mind? I wondered. Had she ever seen women creeping behind wallpaper? Had she seen things that weren't there? In the end, she overdosed on chloroform in 1935. Afflicted with breast cancer, she chose “chloroform over cancer,” per her suicide note. She didn't want cancer to dictate her death, so she did.

When we returned to the hotel, Mark filled the bathtub like he'd promised. He laid the hotel-issued white robe out for me on the bathroom vanity, dimmed the lights, and even held my hand as I stepped into the bath, before kneeling beside me to tuck a rolled-up towel behind my neck.

“Are you sure you didn't have sisters?” I asked.

He laughed, then gave me a soft but sensual kiss. “Take your time,” he said.

The pillow, warm water, and lavender aroma of the bubbles relaxed me so much, I fell asleep. When I woke, my fingers and toes were pruned, and I was light-headed when I finally stood, but my body and mind felt numb in a good way. I felt sane. Wearing the robe, I stepped out into the cool bedroom to find Mark fussing with a corkscrew.

“I was just about to get you,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Good. I ordered a few things because I wasn't sure what mood you were in.” He rushed to lift the silver lids and reveal his selections. “Oh, and I bought you a present,” he added, handing me a small brown paper bag, with gold tissue paper brimming at the top.

Inside, I found a journal. The brown leather cover—worn, cracked, and soft from years of use—boasted a gold fleur-de-lis. The pages inside, all edged in gold, were unblemished but flecked with hues of black and gray and blue.

“It's all recycled materials,” he explained. “The cover, the paper. Even that silk ribbon bookmark. The clerk at the antiques store said it came from the hem of a vintage dress. I thought you could write about your dad. Your memories. It might help you.”

“It's beautiful,” I said, running my fingers along the fresh, crisp pages. It was the sweetest gift a man had ever given me, the kind of gift that told me exactly how he felt about me. He loved me. He cared about my feelings, my thoughts, my most cherished memories.

Then again, he also thought I needed
help
.

I threw my arms around his neck then, realizing there was only one woman obstructing our future. And it wasn't Meryl.

It was me.

Chapter 7

F
or the third time Wednesday morning, I hung up before the phone call went through, before I even heard it ring. I wanted to call. I did. I was beyond curious, and nearing being obsessed. I'd been at work a whole hour and I'd barely touched the quarter-inch stack of obits on my desk. If I could just let the call to Tarble go through, just let Heidi pick up, just break the ice somehow, maybe I could stop obsessing. Maybe.

Janice Richards was right about Heidi working at the college. She was now the alumnae coordinator for Tarble according to the school's Web site, which I'd perused that morning in lieu of writing obits. Heidi's major had been public relations, so she was the opposite of me: bubbly, diplomatic, and great at bullshitting, albeit genuine. Still, I was surprised she'd stayed on to work at the college. A third-generation Tarble girl, Heidi had been told—not asked—where she wanted to go to school, and she had always made that fact known to anyone who would listen. Of course, I'd listened. While other girls found her obnoxious, I'd found her refreshing. I'd admired her outspoken manner and in-your-face attitude.

I should have stopped exploring the Web site then, but I clicked the faculty link, regretting the action even before the new page loaded. And then, there Mark was, in blue hyperlink. He was an associate professor now, no longer an assistant. The tenure committee must have found him fit for a long-term position at Tarble after all. His head shot, however, had not been updated. It was the same photo I'd stared at a year ago when I missed him. I used to love its urban feel; black-and-white, with Mark looking away from the camera, off into the distance.

But now, I saw he was simply looking past me.

I tried typing up an obit but got only the deceased's name down before I picked up the phone a fourth time. Holding my breath, I waited out the initial silence after I dialed and endured several shrill rings. And then someone answered, and it was too late to hang up.

“Alumnae office.” The girl's voice was perky like espresso.

“Can I speak to Heidi Callahan?” I said.

“Is she expecting your call?”

“I'm an old friend of hers.”

“Whom should I say is calling?”

“Tell her it's . . . tell her it's Holly Golightly.”

While I waited, my stomach did somersaults, but I glued the receiver to my ear until I heard a click on the other end.

“Hello?” Heidi said, her voice full of air and hesitant.

“Hi.” I paused. “It's me.” I paused again. “Ruby.”

“Oh, it
is
you,” she gushed, her voice as loud and cacophonous as I remembered. “I wanted it to be you, but I didn't want to get my hopes up. But who else in the world would call and say they were Holly Golightly? No one but you, Ruby. I just love that you said that.”

Tears blurred my vision and stung my throat. Whatever tension I'd imagined, whatever loathing I feared, did not exist. Everything had changed between us, and yet everything was exactly the same.

“I wasn't sure you'd remember,” I said.

“
Breakfast at Tiffany's
? Are you kidding me?”

We shared a laugh, perhaps to conceal the deep emotive significance of the movie we watched over and over again the semester after my father died. Despite its glamorous exterior—Audrey Hepburn standing in front of the Tiffany's jewelry window in that telltale black dress and oversize sunglasses—the film, based on Truman Capote's short story, is at its core a journey through depression. I understood the difference between the blues and the mean reds.

“I can't believe you work at Tarble,” I said.

“I know. Me of all people. My mom is, of course, thrilled, but I keep thinking I'm going to get the boot one day when some video of me turns up on the Internet, one of my many rants about pixie-haircut lesbians who wear Birkenstocks and peasant skirts and don't shave their armpits.”

“Now that sounds more like you.”

“But I've changed. Well, sort of. Doesn't matter. I won't have to keep a positive attitude about single-sex education for long. Did you hear Tarble is going coed next year? The board of trustees isn't set to vote on it until next week, but it's practically a done deal.”

“But President Monroe always opposed coeducation,” I argued.

“Even she had to face the truth. It's either go coed or close our doors for good. Our enrollment is at an all-time low, not to mention so are donations from alumnae. We just can't compete for applicants if we don't admit men.”

A sudden bitterness filled my mouth. It could have been the aftertaste from my morning coffee, but more likely, it was a sour reaction to the news. Since I'd dropped out, I had tried to forget Tarble, push it to the recesses of my mind, but now I suddenly longed for the school, a gnawing ache for ivy-covered brick.

“That's sad. It won't be the same,” I said. “I guess I should have finished my degree when I had the chance.”

Heidi was quiet for a moment. “Ruby, I am so, so sorry,” she finally said. She let out a heavy sigh, as if she'd carried those six words up six flights of steps.

“I'm the one who should be saying sorry.”

“Absolutely not. I feel so guilty for moving out. You needed me, and I wasn't there for you. What kind of friend is that?”

“It's okay.”

“It's not,” she argued. “Did you know? That I came to see you at the hospital?”

“You came?”

“The nurse said you'd already been discharged.”

“But you came.”

“We're best friends.” Her voice cracked. “Did you think I was mad at you all this time?”

“You didn't come to the hospital; well, that's what I thought. And then you never called.”

“I wanted to call, but I thought you'd hang up on me,” she divulged.

“I thought
you
would hang up on
me
.”

We laughed again; we sounded like seventh grade girls.

“I'm so glad you called, Ruby. Today is so the best day.”

And then the image of Beth, tied up in the back of a dirty van, returned, and I prepared for how to ruin Heidi's good mood.

“I did want to talk to you, Heidi,” I started. “About everything. But I also called for a specific reason. You know Beth Richards?”

“Sure.”

“She's missing . . .”

“She's missing what?”

“Missing. As in, she disappeared several days ago.”

“What?”

It was a hypothetical question. I didn't respond.

“God, Ruby, I feel like I'm gonna throw up. How did you hear about this?”

This was Heidi's polite way of asking how I'd found out about Beth before she had. And I gauged from her reaction to the news—sad, confused, but not devastated—that she hadn't been having slumber parties with Beth all summer long.

I told Heidi the story then, about Beth's suitcase and the tag with my name on it, everything from Janice Richards to Detective Pickens to the Pittsburgh PD. I left out the other details, though: the serial killer,
A Room of One's Own,
and Mark.

“I just can't believe it,” she said after I'd finished. “I'm not sure of protocol, but we may need to bring in therapists or something. I mean, we just graduated. There are still a lot of students on campus who knew Beth.”

Two words caught my attention:
we
—as in when
we
graduated. It was sweet of Heidi not to mention the fact I'd dropped out and never actually gotten my diploma. And, of course,
knew
—as in
knew
her. Heidi, like me, was already talking about Beth in the past tense.

“Plus, Beth spent so much time at the college over summer,” I added.

“Did she?”

“You didn't see her on campus?”

“Beth Richards? I haven't seen her since graduation.”

I told Heidi about Beth's summer visits to Tarble, per my conversation with Janice, not mentioning how Beth had used Heidi as an alibi. “You're sure you didn't see her around?”

“You know how small this campus is, Ruby. Believe me, I'd remember seeing her.”

It was Mark,
I thought. It had to have been Mark. Beth hadn't spent summer nights on campus hanging out with Heidi; she'd spent them with Mark, no doubt at his cabin, in his bed, the same bed in which he'd made love to me.

“I must have misunderstood,” I covered. “At any rate, Beth's mom thought the college should know about this. Plus, she wanted someone to tell Sarah Iverson.”

“I can do that,” Heidi said. “But I'd feel better telling her in person, not over the phone. I'll see her this weekend.”

I recalled the postcard I'd found inside Beth's book. “You mean at Reunion?”

“A lot of the girls from our class are coming, probably because it's the last one. So I'm not sure how to handle this Beth Richards thing.” I recognized stress in the waver of Heidi's voice and could hear paper shuffling in the background. “I need to talk to President Monroe right away.”

“Sounds like I should let you go—”

“No, you will not
let me go
. Yes, we can get off the phone, but we are not even close to being done talking, Ruby. I want to know how you are and what you've been doing all this time, and I just want to pick up where we left off.”

Her insistence made my eyes water. “Me too.”

“Well, Miss Golightly,” she quipped. “What the heck are you doing this weekend?”

C
raig had left his office door ajar, so I knocked and waited politely in the corridor.

“Yeah,” he shouted, as if I'd knocked not once but four times.

“You're busy.” I chickened out. “I'll come back.”

“Ruby, wait,” I heard him say after I'd turned away. He was at the door immediately, tugging my sweater sleeve to stop me. “It's just Georgene has been in here seriously twenty times today. I thought you were her. Again.”

“But still, you're busy so I'll just . . .”

Craig pulled at my sleeve once more. “Please, come in. Sit down.”

I followed his instructions. “I was wondering if your offer still stands,” I said.

“Of course. We can go tonight. That is, if you're free.” He attempted to make eye contact. “Are you free tonight, Ruby?”

We stared back at each other a moment. I took in his brown eyes and his chestnut hair neatly parted to the side. His arms were crossed, the cuffs of his plaid shirt had shifted to reveal those beautiful wrists.

He's a nice-looking boy,
I heard my mom say.

But he's my boss,
I argued back to her in my mind.

“Actually, I wasn't talking about pizza.” I looked at my lap to avoid any disappointment on his face.

“Oh. Sorry. I just thought . . . What were you talking about?”

“The article? About the missing girl from Milwaukee? The girl I went to college with?”

“You want to write a story?”

“Well, you said I could, if I wanted to . . .”

“I'm just surprised, that's all.” His words came out slowly, professionally. He was all business now. “You didn't sound interested before.”

I finally looked him in the eye, and if disappointment had been there, it left no trace. And oddly, I felt disappointed he didn't look more upset. “There have been some new developments in the case.” I matched his businesslike tone. “And I have a few leads. But I can't tell you anything. Yet. It's all hush-hush right now. The detective made me swear to secrecy.”

“If the police are keeping a lid on the case, why tell you?” he asked.

“Because I was playing Nancy Drew.”

“I was a Hardy Boys kid myself, but I always wondered about that Nancy.”

“Well, I'm no Nancy. Actually, the detective referred to me as Harriet the Spy.”

“Ouch.” Craig feigned a shot to the heart. “Well, I guess I'll just have to wait to read your story, Harriet.” He eyed his desk calendar, where he'd written and crossed out so many things in blue ink, it looked like a pen had exploded. “Can you get it in to me first thing Monday morning?”

“First thing,” I promised. “But it's going to require travel.”

I told him then about the Tarble College Reunion festivities that weekend. “A lot of Beth's former classmates will be there, not to mention professors. Lots of possible interviews, good sound bites. They might have some sort of vigil for Beth. I just spoke to a representative from the college.”

“A campus in sorrow, but grasping for hope?”

“Precisely.”

He fanned his hands out, as if to say ta-dah. “Looks like you got yourself an assignment.”

I smiled; it had been so easy to earn his trust as a reporter. But could I trust him? What if he didn't like my writing? Then again, was I actually going to write this article? I had agreed to Heidi's invitation to Reunion—after she begged me three times—not because I wanted to make amends with my alma mater, and not because I wanted to write a story for the
Chronicle,
but because of my obsession with Beth and Mark. Was it curiosity or jealousy? Both. Someone at Tarble had to know something about the nature of their relationship—perhaps Beth's former roommate, Sarah Iverson, or another student who took summer session. The possibility of finding out any salacious details was enough incentive for me to swallow my pride and show my face at Reunion, even if former classmates whispered behind my back, even if that meant being within an uncomfortable radius of Mark.